Whirlwind trip has its zigzags

It is said on the best authority that whether you are destined for heaven or hell, first you must go through Atlanta.

And so we did on our way to granddaughter Claire’s wedding to David, the love of her life at the Château de Montalègre somewhere between two villages that were not on the map and within spittin’ distance of Saint Affrique, which was.

An overnight flight to Amsterdam and then on to Nice.

Forget Ironman competitions.

Try arriving in a strange town after dark, bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived to discover the car rental service is on the other side of nowhere.

An amused but kind airport employee literally led us to a bus which took us through the night and spilled us out in a complex of concrete tempered by plantings of tropical shrubs.

Hilton Head isn’t the only place in the world with creative outdoor lighting and signage ie, scarce to none.

If only there had been a place to sit down and meditate, preferably with a medicinal Vodka.

At last, we found the offices of Sixt, who were supposed to have our reservation for a sedan, hopefully one large enough for all of our stuff. After proving that indeed, we had the means to pay, the proper identification and were not wanted by Interpol, we headed out in our Audi for Le Petit Palais, our hotel in Cimiez, a residential area overlooking that most cosmopolitan of Riviera cities, Nice.

The car’s GPS went crazy trying to keep up with the streets that were not only narrow, mostly one way and winding up, down and around meticulously pruned hedges that only allowed a glimpse of elegant mansions lit by security lights.

‘Please’, I begged the god of confirmed reservations, ‘let our hotel concierge still be awake’.

Somewhere there had to be a bed for my aching bones.

And there was. Forget the melatonin tablets. I was out when my head hit the pillow.

Welcome to the south of France, I thought. Hope they make a decent cup of tea.